FICTION

By FORREST REID

On The Night of the Fire. By F. L. Green. (Michael Joseph. 78. 6d.)

Portrait of a Man. By F. W. Lister. (Muller. 7s. 6d.) St. Michael Puts His Foot Down. By Roger Vercel. (Harrap. 7s. 6d.) Children of Guernica. By Hermann Kesten. (Routledge. 75. 6d.)

STYLE is a specific gift. There are great writers who do not possess it, and there are minor writers who do. Charles Lamb,

for example, has style, and Charles Dickens has not, yet I doubt if anybody would claim Lamb to be as great a writer as Dickens. In point of fact, the novelist with a style is rare. We acclaim him when we find him, but extremely interesting novels may be written in prose as devoid of charm and beauty as Balzac's, though I confess I myself avoid them. Granting this, there remains a certain kind of writing which irritates, not because it is graceless or ungrammatical, but because it seems to reflect a careless habit of mind, a lack of critical examination. For instance, when Mr. Green writes, "Every- thing about her was instantly mirth-provoking," we attribute

the dreadful phrase merely to insensibility; we know that he means what he says, and that it is the cliché only which jars.

But when M. Vercel, describing the plight of two persons battling against a furious storm of wind and rain, writes, "So shrewdly did the downpour aim at the exposed parts of their faces that they might have been the victims of a series of detestable practical jokes. After every assault they expected to hear the loud laughter of somebody playing the fool with a hose," we know that the second sentence owes its existence solely to the first, and that a moment's thought on M. Vercel's part would have led him to strike it out. Again, when the boy in Hermann Kesten's novel tells the stranger that "Uncle Pablo ran on ahead, hand-in-hand with our beautiful mother," we know that the words "our beautiful mother" are untrue— untrue, I mean, in the sense that they are out of character, that a boy of fifteen never would have used them.

Such remarks, I fear, coming at the beginning of a review, can hardly fail to strike an ominous note, and it is true that they were suggested by three at any rate of the works listed above. Of the four, only Mr. Green's novel rises above medio-

crity, in that it is at least exciting and dramatic. On the Night of the Fire is a murder story, yet differs from the usual thriller because much of it is convincing, though not all. The subject, I admit, is a difficult one, since any excursion into abnormal psychology has the disadvantage that it is hard to test its validity either from acquired experience or by one's own feel- ings. Not long ago I reviewed Mr. Richards' The Day Will Come, also the study of a murderer, and the difference between the two books is marked. The Day Will Come was horrible, and to my mind it rang true from beginning to end. On the Night of the Fire is not horrible, it is only exciting ; and dare I say that this is its weakness? The novel of Mr. Richards was document, his criminal hero, so far as one can judge, the real

thing; but there are moments in the course of Mr. Green's tale when one feels inclined to ask whether, outside the technical

meaning of the word, Walter Kobling is a criminal or not. I think he is—or rather I think, if treated realistically he would be—but Mr Green compromises, he does not wish completely to alienate sympathy. And here I must say he succeeds; in the man-hunt with which the story closes I, for one, was on the side of the hunted. Yet I am doubtful. Mr. Green influenced me in favour of Walter by giving him a full share of domestic affection, and I am inclined to think that the affections of Mr. Richard's hero come nearer the truth. They are at any rate odiously in keeping with all that happens, while Walter's are not. His first crime can be dismissed as the impulsive action of a man without a moral sense, but his second implies an elemen: of ferocity very far from reassuring. The plot, more- over, has its coincidences—all possible, yet not sufficiently probable to make us forget that it is a plot. The book, how- ever, holds one's interest, and that, I expect, was Mr. Green's

primary aim.

Mr. Lister's aim, in Portrait of a Man, is different—and

different in a way that tends to disarm criticism. Neverthe- less, I do not think Mr. Lister is at present a very good novelist. He has still a great deal to learn, and one of the first things is not to express a too overt admiration for his hero.

"'Now,' he said, in that voice he loved to use in his relation- ship with children, so expressive, so intimate." We do not doubt it, but our ultimate opinion of Halkett will be based on Mr. Lister's presentment of him, not on such hints as these. He is a schoolmaster, and the school is a village-school in Yorkshire, but apparently a pretty big one. He is also a Christian, and this is the prime motive on which the novel is based. It is so long, indeed, since I read anything in the nature of Christian propaganda that it impressed me by its originality. Unfortunately the conception is better than the execution. I do not wish to return to the question of style, but I think that Mr. Lister ought not to call a human body a "soul-case "; and why, since Halkett never was in the War, need he address Father Frickle as Padre? There remains the humour. I fancy that, like Andrew Lang's Scottish editor, Mr. Lister "jokes wi' deeficulty," and I can't help feeling that he would be wiser not to attempt lightness. What one really welcomes in this novel is the desire to portray a man of fine moral integrity who lives up to his ideals. In contemporary fiction such a desire introduces a refreshing change. Halkett is getting on in years ; his eldest son has turned out badly; his daughter has made a wretched marriage ; it is on his younger son that his hopes are centred, until trouble arises with him, too. But the novel is not one of frustration ; the good triumphs.

I believe its more old-fashioned readers will like Portrait ()I a Man, but it is impossible to foretell the fate of any novel. Why should Iso,000 copies of St. Michael Puts His Foot Down have been sold in America? It does not seem to me a remarkable work : I should describe it as readable. There is very little story, and what there is can be divined from the first chapter or two. By then we know that Laura will sooner or later leave Andre. It is not that in either case there is a counter-attraction ; in the whole book, indeed, there is nothing in the nature of drama. It is simply that their tem- peraments are incompatible, that Laura detests Mont-Saint- Michel, where they have come to live, and that Andre finds the place fascinating. Nor is there much subtlety or originality in the character-drawing. The novel really is a glorification of Mont-Saint-Michel, and was written primarily for the sake of describing this picturesque spot. All the incidents are invented with that aim in view, and it is exhibited to us under every climatic condition—in storm and in sun- shine, in mist and in snow. The public evidently likes Mont- Saint-Michel, not only as a holiday resort (annually it attracts thousands of tourists), but also in a book. Personally, I pre- ferred M. Vercel's earlier novel, Tugboat, which was a story of the sea, and, though slight, original and enjoyable. In the present tale I felt he was relying too much on his background, and neglecting his human characters. Laura is little more than a shrew. Her case is stated, but not really treated. What she hates, apart from the place itself, is that her husband, who can get no other work, should have become an official guide, wearing a uniform and accepting tips. She is accustomed to a city life, with its amusements, animation and companion- ship. At the Mount she has nobody to talk to, is disliked by her neighbours, and rarely ventures out of doors. There is certainly a subject here, but M. Vercel has not made the most of it. Secretly, through an old lover, Laura wangles a job in Paris for Andre; but now Andre's suspicions are aroused, he questions her, learns the truth, and allows her to depart for Paris alone.

Children of Guernica is a German novel about a Spanish family, translated by an Englishman. Unluckily, in this case union has produced anything but strength. Most of the story is told by a boy of fifteen—why, I know not, since he does not talk in the least like a boy, and credulity is dispelled at the outset. I thought it poor stuff, but there is a graphic description of an air-raid which may possess a topical interest. And, of course, the latter two novels, being translations, may have lost something that the originals possess. I give them the benefit of the doubt. On the other hand, I cannot think Children of Guernica was worth translating, or indeed ever would have been translated but for the present European muddle.